


the curves of your lips rewrite history

by blazeofglory



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Alternate Universe - World War II, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-05-29 01:02:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15061637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blazeofglory/pseuds/blazeofglory
Summary: In every life, they find each other and they fall in love. In every life, Jack Zimmermann dies young and there's nothing Kent Parson can do to stop it.This is the first exception.





	the curves of your lips rewrite history

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blithelybonny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithelybonny/gifts).



> **Trigger Warnings:** violence, blood, disease, anxiety, panic attacks, prescription drug abuse, overdose, major character death. 
> 
> The title is a quote from _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ by Oscar Wilde.  
>   
> 
> As always, thanks to Sina for all your help and love!

1. 

The first time they meet, Kent doesn’t know that everything is going to change. God, he doesn’t fucking know what’s coming—maybe, if he had known going in, he would’ve turned tail and ran, but he _doesn’t_ , and he walks right down the river to meet his destiny.

There’s something thick in the air, energy crackling around them when their eyes meet, blue eyes looking into blue eyes. It’s beautiful and it’s dangerous, a fire about to start, a journey about to begin—Kent senses it in his bones immediately, a thrilling, terrifying feeling.

Kent smiles and Jack smiles back, and that’s the beginning and end of it all.

Everything is beautiful, until it isn’t. They’re in love, until they’re not.

It’s been at least half a dozen lifetimes, maybe more; Kent can hardly keep track at this point. Life feels normal, as normal as it possibly can, and then there’s _Jack_ , every time.

The year is 1719 now; or, at least, Kent _thinks_ it is. He hasn’t exactly seen a calendar in quite a long time, and it’s difficult to tell when the seasons change in the Bahamas. The harsh noon sun is shining right in Kent’s eyes, and when he raises a hand to shield himself from the light, he can finally see the man standing directly in front of him—blue eyes meet blue eyes and Kent is suddenly breathless.

“I was wondering when I’d see you again,” Kent says, grinning. Suddenly, his sunburn and his tired feet and the healing wound on his side don’t bother him anymore— _nothing_ matters other than Jack. 

“Have we met?” Jack asks, stepping closer, frowning at Kent. Around them, people are talking, someone is screaming, and the waves are crashing into the ship, and Kent should be fearing for his life, but he isn’t. If any other pirate crew had raided this merchant vessel, then Kent would be done for, but fate is smiling on him today.

“No, we haven’t. You don’t know me yet, but you will,” Kent says, still smiling at Jack. He takes in the sight of him—he looks _good_ like this, Kent decides. The tight pants and the Spanish leather and the tricorn hat aren’t things that just anyone can pull off, but they look right on Jack. He’s a proper pirate, really; Kent’s hardly surprised. He extends a hand. “The name’s Kent Parson, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Captain Jack Zimmermann.” 

Jack grasps his hand, and there it is, the _lightning_ , and judging by the look of shock on Jack’s face, he feels it too. They shake hands and their palms linger together for just a little too long before letting go. All suspicion is gone from Jack’s face, replaced by a smile.

“I have a good feeling about you,” Jack says, and the man by his side, presumably his quartermaster, gives Jack a sharp look that Jack promptly ignores. “You should join my crew.” 

Kent doesn’t even give it a second thought before he agrees.

 

  

A few weeks later, once Kent has acclimated stunningly fast to a life of piracy, Jack summons Kent to the captain’s cabin. When Kent arrives, he doesn’t bother knocking on the door before going in, and though Jack would chastise any other crew member for being so presumptuous, he only gives Kent a wry smile. He’s quickly become Jack’s _favorite_ , much to the chagrin of his quartermaster and boatswain, who don’t seem to trust Kent yet.

“We’ll be docking in Port Royal soon,” Jack says from behind his desk, maps spread out in front of him. There’s a question in his eyes that he dares not ask out loud. Jack wants to know if Kent is going to stay, and by the look on his face, Kent is sure of what Jack hopes Kent will answer with.

Jack doesn’t know what this is between them—Kent is well aware of that, and he doesn’t mind. He’s being patient; Jack will come to understand their connection soon enough. This is only the beginning of their life together.

The air in the cabin is thick with humidity, the smell of ink and rum and sweat and salt, and the ever-present tension between them. Kent runs a hand through his messy hair as he steps closer, all too aware of Jack’s eyes following his every movement.

“Port Royal,” Kent echoes while he takes a seat opposite Jack, leaning on his elbows over the desk and bringing their faces quite close together. “A seasoned sailor like myself could find all sorts of opportunities there.” 

Jack looks away, the simple gesture betraying his thoughts. Kent bites his lip to hide a grin.

“I suppose it’ll be a nice pit stop,” Kent continues casually, and Jack looks back at him sharply. “Where do we sail to next?”

 _Oh_ , Kent has always loved Jack’s smile.

It’s as instinctual as breathing to lean across Jack’s desk, cup his face, and draw him into a kiss. When their lips touch, Jack melts into it, and it doesn’t feel like a first kiss at all—it hasn’t felt like a first kiss in several hundred years. They’ve done this before, over and over, and Jack always kisses like this, hungry and all-consuming, and Kent always, _always_ loves it.  

When they part, breathless, Jack has an intense look on his face. Kent makes to move back, but Jack’s hand is suddenly fisted in the collar of his shirt, keeping Kent close. As if Kent would possibly leave him _now_.

“This is dangerous,” Jack whispers, voice tight and anxiety clouding his ever expressive eyes. Yet, he kisses Kent again, chaste and soft, lingering before he pulls back and lets go of Kent’s shirt all at once. “The men will think—”

“Fuck the men,” Kent replies instantly, sitting back and crossing his arms over his chest. Jack heaves a tired sigh. 

“They wouldn’t care that you’re a man,” Jack says, rolling his eyes. That doesn’t come as much of a surprise—Kent has spent a fair amount of time on ships in this life, and he knows that men get desperate to fuck _anyone_ when they’re at sea for a while. Most seamen don’t bat an eye at it, and he’s sure that the pirates are even _more_ open-minded. “They would care because you’re an _outsider_ , and they already mistrust you.”

“They’ll learn to trust me.”

Jack shakes his head, but—he reaches a hand across the desk, and Kent reaches out too. Jack’s palm is sweaty in his. The affection feels effortless; half a dozen lifetimes of love has granted them this ease with each other that feels so _natural_ , Jack doesn’t even question it.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the men aren’t happy with me,” Jack explains, sounding tired beyond his years. He stares down at the maps, eyes flitting across all of the marked spots in the Bahamas—everywhere this ship has been in the past few months, Jack had explained to him the other night. “Our scores haven’t been enough in almost a year and they’re growing _angry_. Some of them… believe that I’m not fit to lead anymore.”

“Our luck will turn,” Kent refutes, squeezing Jack’s hand hard, feeling the sharp edges of all the rings on Jack’s fingers pressing into his palm. “I’ll help you, we’ll prove them wrong! I know trade routes all over the Atlantic, I can _show_ you—”

“There’s talk of _mutiny!_ ” Jack interrupts in a loud whisper, and Kent falls silent. 

After a moment, Kent repeats quietly, “Mutiny?”

“We have to tread carefully,” Jack explains, finally squeezing Kent’s hand back. “Before we reach Port Royal, I suspect that they will call a vote to challenge my captaincy.”

“Is that how pirates do it?” Kent can’t help but ask, though he feels foolish for it. “They don’t just… use force?” 

The strained smile on Jack’s face does absolutely nothing to assuage Kent’s growing fears.

“They might,” Jack admits. “I hope I have enough time to sway their sentiment before it’s too late.”

There’s a loud thump from just outside the captain’s cabin and Kent startles, letting go of Jack’s hand and jumping out of his seat. Jack stands too, considerably more composed, and he draws his cutlass. Kent’s heart is beating fast, he can hardly think—Jack walks around the desk, positioning himself in front of Kent.

Kent has a bad feeling about this.

 _No_ , Kent thinks. _It’s too soon, we’ve only just met!_

Someone fires a musket and the door is blown open, wood splintering and flying everywhere, and suddenly the cabin is full of smoke and screams, and Kent doesn’t even have a _weapon_ , he’s defenseless, he’s useless, he can’t protect Jack—

Jack holds his own, for a while. Some of his crew are loyal men that come to his aid, but they’re not as organized as the mutineers. Kent manages to filch a sword off a body and he takes down two men, no finesse but all _anger_ and fear, heedless of his own safety—he can barely see for the smoke and he’s lost sight of Jack, and panic sets into Kent’s very soul.

Kent whirls around, searching desperately, looking through all the men fighting around him, the stench of death thick in his nose, and then he spots Jack, laying on the floor in a puddle of blood. 

“ _No,_ ” Kent whispers, falling to his knees beside Jack, dragging him behind the desk—it’s not safer, not really, but perhaps it will grant them another moment to draw breath. Jack is bleeding from a deep wound in his stomach that Kent presses down on immediately, soaking his hands in Jack’s blood, but Jack is already slipping, his eyes are closing, _no, no_ — “Jack, it’s too _soon_ , please—!”

Jack makes no response.

Seconds later, a man holds a musket to Kent’s head. 

He squeezes his eyes shut tight, holding Jack’s dead body tight, and prays, _Another life is waiting. Jack is still waiting._

Kent can’t quiet the fear, though, the voice in his head that whispers, _What if there isn’t a next time? What if this was our last chance?_

Kent can’t breathe.

The man cocks the musket.

Kent thinks he may get used to the pain of death someday, but that day is not today.

 

 

2. 

1845 feels something like a fairytale. Kent is much better off in this life, born into a wealthy family that has given him every opportunity that upper class London has to offer—he is a scholar, a _gentleman_ , someone of influence and power.

Kent’s always loved power. 

Kent’s mother insists on hosting a ball to celebrate Kent’s engagement, and though he’s somewhere between indifferent and borderline annoyed about the prospect of marrying a woman, he hardly minds having a party thrown in his honor. His mother and their servants plan it all; Kent has very little input and he’s absolutely fine with that.

Yet, when the night of the ball comes, Kent feels that tingle of electricity in the air, and he wishes that he’d looked at the guest list. He could’ve been _prepared_. Though, honestly, he’s not sure anything could have readied him for the sight of Jack like _this_.

Jack had been full of illicit sex appeal as a leather-clad pirate, but _now_ , he looks like a painting come to life in a suit that fits him impeccably. Jack stands tall and strong, the perfect picture of an upper class gentleman, though Kent sees the edge of nerves in Jack’s blue eyes, and _yes_ , this is the same Jack Zimmermann that’s always hated parties. There’s a woman on his arm in a gaudy yellow dress, so Kent keeps a lookout for Jack out of the corner of his eye for most of the party, waiting until the woman steps away before he swoops in. Kent has no idea where his own fiancée is and he doesn’t really care.

Three glasses of champagne later, Kent sidles up to Jack, smiling easily. 

“Congratulations on your engagement,” Jack says with a polite smile. He’s holding a drink in one hand and a strawberry in the other—he glances down at his hands like he knows that he should shake Kent’s hand and feels rude that he can’t. “I, uh, I’m Jack Zimmermann.”

“I know,” Kent replies with a fond smile. It’s been an unusually long gap this time; it’s been so _long_ since Kent’s seen Jack’s face, he wishes that he could touch him, caress him, _kiss_ him. It’s possible the champagne is going to his head and he reminds himself of his manners. “I didn’t know you’d be coming. Have you been in London long?”

“Only a few days,” Jack replies, already seeming like he’s relaxing. He looks at Kent, his gaze lingering on his face for a long, searching moment before his eyes drop to the floor and then back up, nervous. “I think we may have met before. You look so _familiar_ , but I can’t place it _._ ”

Kent allows himself _one_ touch—he reaches out, fingertips trailing along the back of Jack’s hand holding his glass, and then his hand retreats before anyone can look over and notice.

 _Lightning._

_Sparks._

_Kindling bursting into flame_.

“Maybe we _have_ met,” Kent whispers, stepping closer so only Jack can hear him. Jack looks _transfixed_ , leaning in too. “I believe we’ve met in my dreams a time or two.” 

Jack laughs, his face lighting up so beautifully, and Kent treasures the sight—but it draws the attention of other guests, and Kent would really rather not be interrupted right now.

“Have you seen the gardens yet?” Kent asks hurriedly, and Jack blushes, shaking his head. _Oh_ , Jack knows exactly what’s going on here. Smart boy.

“I’d love a tour,” Jack says politely.

They manage to slip away from the party unnoticed, Kent leading Jack through the manor and out onto the lawn, past the green house and the main gardens. His family owns a _lot_ of land, all immaculately landscaped, but eventually, they reach the garden farthest from the manor—it’s smaller than the rest, a bit overgrown, but it’s quiet, and there’s a fountain and a bench that Kent sits down on. Jack follows suit, glancing all around them, a soft smile on his face.

“I’ve missed seeing this much green,” Jack says quietly, idly plucking a white rose from the bush beside the bench. He holds it for a moment, gently caressing a thorn but not letting it pierce his skin, and then he looks up and meets Kent’s eyes. And he _smiles_. He offers Kent the rose. “I’m glad that London has roses, or I wouldn’t want to stay.”

Kent takes the rose with a smile, blushing in the moonlight. He wonders, fleetingly, if this is the life where they get to be happy.

“You can come visit the gardens any time you’d like,” Kent offers.

Under the moonlight, Jack looks even more handsome—almost otherworldly, ethereal, untouchable. _Yet_ , Kent reaches out, all champagne-fueled boldness, and puts his hand on Jack’s knee. Not so untouchable after all. The party and Kent’s new fiancée are far, _far_ from his mind. 

“I think I’ll take you up on that.” Jack hesitates for a second, then puts his hand on top of Kent’s. He’s still smiling shyly. “It’ll be nice to have a friend here.” 

Kent leans in, his intent clear, and Jack’s smile doesn’t falter for a second.

“I think we’ll be good friends,” Kent murmurs, and then he leans in and Jack meets him halfway, and they kiss.

 

 

Kent and Jack both wed their fiancées in the fall, two lovely weddings filled to the brim with high class socialites—they’re extravagant affairs, though Kent knows all too well that Jack loathes the attention. They carry on with their business and their lives, they do their duties to their wives.

Still, every week, they meet in the gardens. 

Kent lounges under the shade of a weeping willow, watching the leaves stirring in the breeze, while he waits for his lover. When Jack arrives, dressed in a fine suit as always, he doesn’t hesitate before sitting down on the ground beside Kent, greeting him with a sweet kiss. They risk being caught like this, but the servants know, their wives know, and they can’t resist meeting in the late afternoon sun—Kent is weak for the way Jack’s eyes light up in the sunlight.

When they part, Jack presses a white rose into Kent’s palm, and Kent smiles. 

“Kenny, I’ve been thinking, we should go visit my family,” Jack declares, shedding his coat and laying down in the grass properly. Kent leans against his side, resting his head on Jack’s chest and staring up at what he can see of the cloudless blue sky through the branches of the willow. He’s only met Jack’s family once, at the wedding, but Jack is close with them, and they, too, are aware of the nature of Kent and Jack’s _intimate friendship_. It may just be the worst kept secret in all of London. 

“Just you and I?”

“Anne hates the country,” Jack points out as he runs his fingers through Kent’s hair. “And you know that Emily wouldn’t mind letting me steal you away for a few weeks.”

“Weeks?” Kent grins. No, his wife wouldn’t mind that at all—Emily’s been saying lately that she wants to have her sisters stay at the manor for a bit, and he’s sure that they’ll have more fun together without his presence. _Besides_ , she’ll probably think it’s romantic that Jack wants to sweep him away on a countryside vacation. “I suppose I could take the time.”

Jack laughs, a melodic sound that fits right into their idyllic spring afternoon. A light breeze picks up, a bird starts to sing, and Kent lets out a sigh of contentment.

“I’ll show you where I grew up,” Jack says quietly. “There are woods behind our house, a dozen stray cats live in there, you’ll _love_ it.”

Kent props himself up on Jack’s chest, then leans in for another kiss, long and slow and _sweet_. After a moment, he moves back, and they smile at each other.

“Sounds like heaven,” Kent says, and the answering smile on Jack’s face is blindingly bright.

 

 

This time, they get three years together before the bloody end.

Kent has seen Jack die, over and over and _over_ , in so many different terrible ways, but this is just—it’s _excruciating_. It’s usually over so fast, gunshots and stab wounds and terrible falls and gasping for air—but this disease kills Jack so fucking slowly. Every time it seems like it’s getting better, things take a turn for the worse, and Kent wakes every day, terrified that Jack may have breathed his last breath while Kent slept. 

It’s a chance to say goodbye, at the very least; Kent knows he should be thinking about it this way. He knows he should be _grateful_ that Jack is not being suddenly, violently ripped from his arms. But this doesn’t feel like something he should be grateful for—it makes him _angry_ that the universe is doing this to them. The universe is _murdering_ Jack, slowly, so fucking slowly, making him suffer, making them _both_ suffer, and Kent wonders, not for the first time, why they are cursed to such a fate. 

 _Did we do something in our first life to deserve this?_ Kent wonders one night, wide awake in a chair beside Jack’s bed. Jack is resting for now, but Kent can’t quite bring himself to leave just yet. _Did we anger God? Was it a witch? Am I doomed to relive this tragedy until the world stops turning?_  

No answers come for Kent’s silent questions. He can’t talk about this with anyone—not Jack, not Emily, not a priest. No one would believe him. 

Still asleep, Jack starts to cough, and the sudden sound in the otherwise silent bedroom startles Kent. He watches, helpless and terrified, as Jack coughs bright red blood onto the white pillowcase.

After a moment, Kent reaches out, hand shaking like a leaf, and carefully wipes the blood off of Jack’s chin with his thumb. At Kent’s touch, Jack’s eyes blink open. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Kent whispers, leaning closer to the bed, caressing Jack’s face now, heedless of the blood on his hand. Jack offers him a sleepy smile, the pain still at bay while he’s half-asleep.

“You’re going to get sick,” Jack whispers, voice hoarse. “The doctors forbade Anne from sleeping in the same room as me.”

Something in Kent’s heart is fractured, splintering into pieces. There have been lives that Jack has died and Kent has kept on with his life, and sometimes he manages to be happy, but that won’t happen this time. _No_. It is going to kill Kent when Jack dies. 

“I don’t care,” Kent says honestly. He hopes that the room is dark enough that Jack doesn’t notice the tears in Kent’s eyes. “I’m going to be by your side until the end.”

Jack coughs again, worse than before, and all Kent can do is watch.

This torture is cruel.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” Kent asks in a soft, broken voice. 

Jack is quiet for a moment, then says, “I could never forget the way you looked at me in the gardens.”

Kent misses the gardens—Jack has been too sick to leave this room for some time now, and it would feel wrong to go there alone. It’s spring again now, the roses should be budding. Kent wants to cry.

Of course, that was not the first time they met. Not really. But only Kent remembers that now, and he’s alright with that. This life, this first meeting, has been better than all the rest. _It’s no wonder_ , Kent muses, _that this ending is the worst. Maybe that’s how this life evens out on fate’s miserable scales. The best and worst of it all._

“We’re going to meet again,” Kent whispers, leaning in and pressing his forehead to Jack’s, heedless of contagion. “I’ll take you to the gardens again, my love.”

Kent’s face feels wet with both Jack’s tears and his own. Jack lets out a quiet, broken sob that pierces the shattered remains of Kent’s heart.

“Kenny, I—” Jack pauses, taking a shaky breath, tears still flowing down his face. “I want to be buried there. Under the willow.”

Gracelessly, Kent clambers into the bed, careful not to jostle Jack. He leans into his lover’s side, his face next to Jack’s on the blood-stained pillow, their hands clasped together. Jack’s skin is more pale than should be physically possible and his hands are so _cold._

“I would do anything for you,” is all that Kent can think to say in response, voice thick with tears. Kent’s blue eyes look into Jack’s blue eyes, and Jack offers a small, tired smile through his tears. 

“I love you,” Jack murmurs, eyes slipping shut.

Kent presses a kiss to Jack’s forehead and whispers back, “I love you too.” 

Jack falls asleep in Kent’s embrace.

Jack doesn’t wake up.

 

 

3. 

For once, Kent doesn’t remember the first time time they met in this life. Jack has just _always_ been there, ever since they were kids; Kent can’t remember a time when Jack wasn’t by his side. Come 1922, Jack and Kent are thick as thieves, best friends that have had each other’s backs through everything that life has thrown at them. They’ve been lovers since they first learned what it meant to love.

“One of these days, you’re gonna break your hand,” Kent points out as he carefully runs his fingers over the scabs on Jack’s knuckles. There are _always_ scabs on Jack’s knuckles—the second they heal, he goes and punches someone else again and starts the healing process all over. 

Jack flexes his fingers, then turns his hand to grab Kent’s, lacing their fingers together easily.

“I’m careful, Kenny,” Jack says, and Kent knows that he’s not lying. Jack is a big guy, he can take care of himself—that’s what makes him so good as an enforcer for the mafia—but he doesn’t put himself in any unnecessary danger, and that knowledge helps Kent sleep a little better at night. “I haven’t broken a bone since—”

“Since the third grade,” Kent interrupts, grinning. “Yeah, yeah, I remember how much you cried.” 

Jack laughs and lets go of Kent’s hand so he can shift closer on the bed, straddling Kent’s thighs and grinning down at him. Jack is a fucking wet dream like this, with his tie loose, his collar unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up, and his once-slicked back hair now falling in his eyes, smiling that handsome fucking smile at Kent. Jesus, if Kent was the swooning type, he’d be falling all over Jack all day every day.

“You cried too,” Jack says, mischief bright in his eyes, and Kent laughs now too.

“I was _concerned_ ,” Kent refutes as he reaches up, pushing Jack’s hair back and watching it fall right back onto his forehead again. “I also felt really bad for not catching you.”

“I don’t know how I ever forgave you,” Jack replies, but he can only hold his serious face for a second before he breaks into a grin and leans down, kissing Kent soundly. They’re both smiling too much to get any real kissing done, but they give it their best shot, and Kent laughs into Jack’s mouth when their teeth click together.

“I don’t have time for this,” Kent murmurs while Jack presses lingering kisses to Kent’s neck. Jack hums in acknowledgement, but he starts untying Kent’s tie anyway, and Kent huffs a laugh. “ _Baby_ , don’t tempt me, I have work to do.” 

Jack’s lips close on Kent’s neck, sucking a dark hickey just under his ear, and Kent can’t help but moan.

“Work can’t wait?” Jack asks in a soft whisper right into Kent’s ear, and Kent _shivers_. Fuck, he’s so easy for Jack, and Jack knows it. The bastard.

“I have to go bribe a police officer,” Kent protests, even as he slides his fingers into Jack’s hair and holds him in place. He feels Jack smile against his neck.

“I know you’re meeting with Officer Johnson,” Jack says, sounding smug. “So you’re definitely just gonna get drunk and hang out. He can wait.”

Kent chuckles, because—okay, fair. Officer Johnson is _very_ easy to bribe, all Kent has to do is bring some free moonshine and shoot the shit with him, and then they’re golden. He glances at his watch, then heaves a dramatic sigh.

“I can stay for half an hour,” Kent acquiesces, and Jack immediately goes back to kissing Kent’s neck. “Try not to make too much of a mess of me.”

Jack looks up with a wolfish grin. “No promises.”

“God, I love you,” Kent groans as Jack shifts down the bed, undoing Kent’s belt with deft fingers and shoving his slacks and briefs down to mid-thigh. Kent slides his fingers into Jack’s hair again, and Jack smiles up at him.

“I love you too,” Jack says, pressing an affectionate kiss to Kent’s hipbone, and then his mouth is on Kent’s cock and they don’t do any more talking for a while.

 

 

By 1923, everything has started to fall apart.

“Get out,” Jack whispers, cupping Kent’s face and staring at him with wild, anxious eyes. “They don’t know that you’re here, they think I live alone. You have to run.”

Kent shakes his head immediately, his heart and thoughts racing as he tries to figure a way out of this situation. The police are _coming_ , half the mafia is already in jail or _dead_ , and now they’re at Jack’s door. The radio is still on, playing a quiet song, and the cops are in the other room, and they _know_ that someone is home, they’re going to burst into the bedroom and check the closet any second now.

There’s a fire escape, but there’s no way to get out quietly. There’s no chance in hell that both of them can make it out alive.

“Not without you,” Kent refutes, putting his hand over Jack’s, keeping him from pulling away. “I—I can’t leave you.”

“ _Kenny_ ,” Jack whispers sharply. Kent can feel Jack _shaking_ , anxiety pouring off him in waves. “Either we both die or _you_ live. You have to get the fuck out of here.”

“Jack—”

Jack pulls Kent close roughly, kissing him hard for one brief, beautiful second.

“ _Please_ ,” Jack whispers, and all Kent can do is nod.

“I love—”

“I know,” Jack says, and the tender, _devastated_ look on his face breaks Kent’s heart. “Me too. Now _hurry_.”

Kent opens the closet door as quietly as possible, relieved that the cops haven’t made their way into the bedroom yet, and he hurries out the open window and onto the fire escape. He thinks he’s managed to get away unnoticed, but then he hears a loud voice.

_“Someone’s getting away!”_

Kent knows that he can’t get down the ladder fast enough without getting shot, so he grabs his gun, ready to defend himself, and he hears footsteps fast approaching. His hand shakes, but he cocks the gun anyway, and prays that he can shoot straight.

He watches with wide eyes as Jack bursts out of the closet, shooting at the unsuspecting officers, and he takes two down before they can even shoot back. Hurriedly, Kent clambers back in through the window, looking around—it looks like there were only two cops, what are the fucking odds? He turns to Jack, already grinning, and Jack turns to him too, relief writ large on his face. They should have plenty of time to get away before backup arrives.

A third cop suddenly bursts through the doorway, and he only gets one shot out before Kent shoots him right in the heart.

Kent turns to Jack again, but Jack isn’t smiling anymore. Jack drops his gun and it hits the floor with a loud thunk, and Jack touches his chest with a shaking hand. His fingers come away wet with blood. 

“Jack!” Kent rushes to Jack’s side, catching him just before he stumbles, and they both fall onto the bed. He puts pressure on the wound, trying not to panic—Jack is still breathing, they can call someone, Jack is going to be okay, Jack _has_ to be okay.

“Are you alright?” Jack gasps out, then immediately coughs, his face twisting in pain.

“I’m fine, don’t worry about me,” Kent whispers, gently pushing Jack’s hair out of his eyes. “You’re gonna be okay too, I just—I need to call a doctor.” 

“It’s too late,” Jack whispers, and he coughs again. This time, blood comes up, and that— _fuck_ , that brings up a terrible memory. Kent wipes the blood away and tries to ignore the sense of déjà vu. Jack’s gone pale and his eyes are losing focus, and Kent—Kent can’t go through this again, it’s not _fair_ , Jack doesn’t deserve this, Jack has _never_ deserved this.

“I’m sorry,” Kent murmurs, voice thick with tears. His tears drip down onto Jack’s face, but Jack doesn’t notice at all. The blood is pooling all around them, staining the sheets, soaking into the mattress, tainting this bed where they had been _happy_. They loved each other in this bed, they held each other in this bed, they stayed up late at night talking in this bed, they made plans for the future in this fucking bed, but the future isn’t coming for them anymore, and Kent wants to scream. He wants to grab his gun, he wants to leave this room, he wants to make every motherfucker responsible for this _pay._ “ _Fuck,_ I shouldn’t have tried to run, I should have stayed by your side and _protected_ you.”

Jack offers a tired smile and his voice is so quiet that Kent can barely hear it when he says, “Don’t be sorry. You’re _alive_.”

“Jack…”

“Kenny,” Jack says softly.

Kent leans down and kisses Jack, tasting the blood and the tears, and Jack kisses back, but so _weakly_.

“Why does this happen to us?” Kent asks quietly, full of despair. He’s never brought this up with Jack before, but Jack is _dying_ , nothing matters anymore anyway. “We’re cursed, baby, and I don’t fucking know why.”

“Bad luck,” Jack murmurs, and Kent gives a watery chuckle.

“I want to believe that we’ll be happy someday,” Kent whispers, voice breaking. “I—I want us to grow old together, Jack. We deserve it.”

The only sound in the room is the radio still playing a soft, sad tune that Kent doesn’t know.

“Jack? _Jack?_ Jack, _please_ —”

The radio plays on. _  
_

 

 

4.

“Is this seat taken?” 

Kent looks up sharply, dropping his fork in surprise and sending bits of mashed potato flying all over the table, but he doesn’t fucking care. Standing in front of him in army greens that match Kent’s own is _Jack_. Finally.

Jack starts to look uncomfortable after a moment; Kent realizes that he’s been staring and he shakes himself out of it. He puts on his most charming smile and gestures at the seat across from him, as grandiose as if it were a plush armchair in a Victorian estate, rather than a dirty plastic chair in a loud mess hall.

“Feel free,” Kent says, and Jack sits. 

They introduce themselves and eat their shitty dinners, all while Kent can’t quite resist sneaking glances over at Jack. He thought maybe he missed his chance in this life, if Jack had somehow miraculously avoided the draft. He _hoped_ that Jack was safe at home somewhere, because _maybe_ he would be safe in a life without Kent, but—he’s _here_ , and Kent can’t really bring himself to be upset about it. It’s 1943 and the world is at war, they’re somewhere in France but Kent doesn’t even speak French, and his socks haven’t been dry in _years_ , but… maybe having Jack around will make everything just a little bit less miserable.

But, of course, Kent is all too aware that Jack’s opportunities for an early death are amplified by a thousand here. Kent sits in that uncomfortable plastic chair and watches Jack, pale and handsome, if a little thin and tired looking—and he thinks, _You won’t survive this war._

“I just got transferred to this unit yesterday,” Jack says after a while, setting his fork aside and scrubbing a tired hand over his face. He looks over at Kent, exhaustion in his blue eyes. “Would you mind showing me to a bed?”

In any other situation, Kent would’ve taken that for a come-on, and he sorta wishes that it was now too, but he’s glad for any excuse to be near Jack. They leave the mess hall together, and Kent is just grateful that they actually have a _building_ to stay in here, rather than the shitty tents that he’s grown so accustomed to. They may only be here for a handful of nights, but Kent is sure as hell going to enjoy not sleeping on the hard ground.

When they reach the makeshift barracks, they both reach for the light switch at the same time, and their fingers graze.

At the jolt of lightning between them, Jack takes a startled step back, staring at Kent with wide eyes. “Did you feel that?” 

Kent gives a real smile this time, all of the hardships and anxieties of war slipping away for just one beautiful moment, as he shrugs and says, “Must be a loose wire or something.” 

Jack smiles back.

 

 

While trudging through the muddiest trenches that France has to offer, Kent and Jack get little to no free time alone together, and it’s starting to drive Kent mad. It’s been a few months since they met and became fast friends, and Kent loves having Jack in his life again, he really does. But… it’s been a whole _lifetime_ since Kent last got to _kiss_ Jack, and he’s going out of his mind with want.

Sometimes, at night, some of their unit gather around a fire, talking and drinking, doing anything to put off going to sleep. They all have nightmares, though not a soul ever says a word about it. It’s _these_ nights, when Jack sits by Kent’s side and leans into him and whiskey helps Jack relax a little bit, that Jack looks at Kent with naked intent in his eyes.

When their eyes meet, Kent can’t tell what Jack is thinking, but he looks so _intense_. After a moment, Jack’s eyes unmistakably flicker down to Kent’s lips, and _oh_ , Kent wishes they were alone right now. As impulsive as Kent is, he knows he may just do something stupid, so he makes himself look away, grateful for the cover of darkness hiding the blush on his cheeks.

Jack slings a heavy arm around Kent’s shoulders, and Kent just goes with it, resting his head on Jack’s shoulder. In the dark, only the last burning embers of the fire contributing any light to the clearing they’re in, no one pays any mind to Kent and Jack cuddling in the shadows. Even after all this time, Kent hasn’t grown accustomed to the biting cold at night, and he’s grateful for Jack’s warmth. When he sleeps at night, if he manages not to have nightmares, his dreams are memories of being warm—laying with Jack, just the two of them, safe and alone in a patch of sunlight.

Kent yearns for the comfort of a garden that he knows must not exist anymore.

Almost lulled to sleep by the warmth of Jack’s embrace, Kent doesn’t think before asking in a whisper, “Do you have a favorite flower, Jack?”

Jack chuckles quietly, squeezing his arm around Kent in open affection, and says, “No, I don’t think I do. Do you?”

“I used to,” Kent murmurs. Feeling bold, he puts a hand on Jack’s thigh—it’s not so forward, really, considering that their thighs are pressed together already. But touching Jack like this, in a way that’s almost _intimate_ , it makes Kent yearn for things that he cannot have. “I had a lover, once, who brought me roses every week.”

“Is this lover waiting for you back home?” Jack asks softly, a hint of hesitation in his voice as he tilts his head to rest on top of Kent’s.

“No,” Kent answers, barely loud enough to hear over the drinking song that some of the men have started up, and he does not elaborate.

Jack says nothing, but he keeps holding Kent, and that’s enough.

 

 

Despite the years that Kent has spent in the army, he hasn’t gotten used to the hell that is battle. The very first time he saw combat, he heard guns going off and he swore, for one vivid, terrible second, that he was back on a pirate ship, facing a mutiny and watching Jack bleed out, and he couldn’t breathe—Kent was too busy panicking to be of much help to his fellow soldiers that day.

Going into battle with Jack by his side is not a comfort to Kent. He’s all too aware of Jack’s presence, he’s always looking out for him, watching him, trying to protect him, and it’s _terrifying_ , knowing that any moment could be their last. Though Kent knows that Jack will not survive this war, he is determined to help Jack survive as long as fucking possible, and he’s willing to lay down his own life if that’s what it takes. He does not intend to let Jack go easily, especially since they haven’t even _kissed_ yet.

Even in their brief, bloody time as pirates, they got those few kisses right before everything went to shit. Kent doesn’t even want to think about how the last life ended—it’s too painful, even now.

But as it turns out, Kent is helpless to save Jack in the end. He can protect him from soldiers with guns and knives, sure, but Kent can’t fucking do anything when the bomb goes off.

It happens after they’ve set up camp for the night, the location deemed secure and the men practically asleep on their feet. They built their tents, they lit their fires, and—Kent only just walked away from Jack a moment ago, to fetch them dinner and bring it right back. But before Kent can grab a can of beans, he hears an explosion and people start screaming _immediately_ , and Kent’s ears are ringing when he turns around, stunned at the scene of chaos before his eyes.

There was an old church, the only building left standing in what was once a small French town, and the commanding officers had decided to use it to discuss their next move in private.

Jack, recently made a captain, was in there.

A minute ago, it was a church, but now Kent is staring at a pile of smoking bricks and debris, and his heart stops beating.

Fear freezes Kent for a moment, but then he’s lurching forward, heedless of any danger—there must still be enemy soldiers around, he knows he should be hiding or attacking, but he has to find Jack. He rushes over, choking on smoke, straining his voice as he yells, “Jack! _Jack_ , fuck, where are you?” 

Frantic, breathless, Kent searches through the debris, treading carefully, but he doesn’t see _anyone_ , not a single body, even though there must have been at least a dozen men in there, and he’s just starting to hope that maybe they all somehow _left_ the church while Kent’s back was turned—but then he sees Jack.

“Oh my god,” Kent gasps out, falling to his knees, scraping his hands raw as he tries to move the bricks off of Jack’s chest. It’s not so bad, maybe a few broken ribs, Jack probably passed out when he fell to the ground. Kent gently cups Jack’s cheek, checking his neck for a pulse, but he can’t even fucking tell because his own heart is beating so hard now.

_No, no, no._

Kent slides his hand into Jack’s hair, checking for unseen injuries, and he finds the back of Jack’s head sticky and wet with blood. 

“ _Jack?”_  

Kent checks for a pulse again, forcing his hands to stop shaking, and there’s _nothing_ , oh _God, no—_

“Jack, wake up,” Kent is yelling, pleading, pushing off the last of the bricks and pulling Jack close, holding his head so gently, careful not to hurt him. He feels the blood soaking into his pants, so much blood, _too_ much blood, and he tries to staunch the wound, but the damage is done. It’s too late. “ _Jack,_ no, please, baby, I need you to wake up.”

Jack’s eyes, as beautiful and blue as ever, stare up, unseeing, and Jack does not wake.

 

 

5. 

Kent is so fucking nervous.

The Q is a big deal. It’s a _really fucking big deal_. It’s the next step to playing professionally, and that’s all Kent’s ever dreamed of, and he can’t believe this is really happening. He lingers outside the locker room door, trying to psych himself up enough to walk in. This is the beginning of his fucking future, that’s a _lot_ of pressure. He’s 16 years old and it feels like the world is at his feet, but what if he drops the fucking ball?

Kent doesn’t quite know why, but he has a good feeling about this anyway. 2007 feels like it’s going to be a good year. The Q is going to be good for Kent—he knows this. Confidence renewed, he finally goes inside. He glances around for a second at the familiar scene around him—he doesn’t know these guys, but they’re just boys his age getting dressed in hockey pads, that’s nothing new. It smells like sweat and feet, and that’s gross but familiar too. There’s really nothing to be nervous about here; the last of Kent’s nerves slip away. 

As Kent looks around, a boy looks up from lacing up his skates, and his eyes are so fucking _blue_. Kent’s heart stops for a second.

 _Jack_.

 _Oh_ , Kent thinks, _There you are. I’ve been waiting for you._  

Well, meeting Jack is a sure sign that Kent is on the right track with his life here. They almost never meet this _young_ , they’re only teenagers, and he finds himself grinning at Jack, overwhelmed with excitement at the prospect of being in Juniors with _Jack_.

Kent steps forward, offering his hand for Jack to shake.

“I’m Kent Parson,” he says, trying to tone down his grin but failing miserably. 

Jack shakes his hand, and _yes_ , the spark, the lightning, it feels like this whole fucking room is on fire for just one brilliant moment, and Jack drops Kent’s hand in shock.

Kent keeps smiling like nothing weird just happened, and after a second, Jack smiles back. 

“Jack Zimmermann,” he finally responds, pushing his hair back self-consciously. “Welcome to the team." 

“You have no idea how happy I am to be here,” Kent says honestly, and Jack just smiles.

Kent sets his bag down and takes a seat next to Jack, getting all his shit out to start changing. He feels comfortable in this locker room already; anything that could possibly go wrong pales in comparison to the joy of being reunited with Jack. In most lives, he doesn’t start really missing Jack, _yearning_ for Jack, until he’s a little bit older—they’re both so young right now, Kent wasn’t even sure if his dreams of a beautiful blue-eyed boy were even real memories until just now. Jack is _real_ , and Kent remembers _everything_. He knows, deep down in his fucking _bones_ , he knows that they’re going to fall in love. It’s going to be beautiful, it’s going to be _glorious_.

They’re _destined_ to be in love… And Jack is destined to die.

But—Kent glances over at Jack again, and blue eyes meet blue eyes, and Jack gives him a small smile. All thoughts of death flee Kent’s mind; he can worry about that later. Right now, they’re going to play some beautiful fucking hockey.

 

 

“It’s gonna be okay,” Kent says softly, and Jack squeezes his hand hard. He’s breathing fast and his eyes are unfocused, and Kent doesn’t know how to help. “Do you need water? Or—uh, should I call your mom?”

Jack shakes his head frantically and leans heavily against the closed door. Slowly, he sinks down, ‘til he’s sitting on the floor, and Kent sits next to him, letting Jack lean against his side. Not knowing what else to do, Kent just wraps an arm around Jack and kisses the top of his head. 

Kent doesn’t know what triggered this panic attack; he’s not sure anything really happened. Jack just… he gets caught up in his thoughts, sometimes, and Kent knows that these parties can get overwhelming for him. He feels bad for asking Jack to go with him, but he’s glad that he at least managed to get them upstairs and into the guest room without anyone noticing. Jack would be mortified if anyone else saw him like this.

“Water?” Jack asks quietly after a few moments, his breathing finally slowing. Kent gets up, grateful that this room has an en suite, and he finds paper cups under the sink. He fills one for Jack and brings it back, and he doesn’t say anything as Jack takes two pills out of his pocket and swallows them down with the water.

Last time that Kent asked about Jack’s prescription, Jack had told him to mind his own business, and Kent doesn’t want to fight tonight. He sits back down and they lean against each other, listening to the pop music blaring from downstairs and most of their teammates drunkenly yelling stupid shit. Kent may like parties more than Jack does, but he finds that he’d much rather be in this room alone with Jack than down there with all the rest of their friends.

Jack sighs quietly, then rests his head on Kent’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” Jack whispers.

“Don’t be,” Kent says immediately, reaching for Jack’s hand again and lacing their fingers together. “I just wanna help.”

“Tell me a story?” Jack asks, then presses a warm kiss to Kent’s neck. “Something to distract me?”

“A story?” Kent echoes. He’s no good at stories, he’s got a terrible imagination. The only tales he has to tell are memories… But he’s never been one to deny Jack whatever he wants, so he acquiesces. “Okay. Once upon a time, there were two men that fell in love.”

“Were their names Jack and Kent?” Jack interrupts, chuckling and already sounding more relaxed—though that’s definitely more from the pills than from Kent.

“Absolutely,” Kent responds, chuckling now too. “Jack and Kent were in love. It was a long time ago, way back in the Middle Ages. Jack was a noble, but Kent was just a peasant, and they never should’ve met, you see? But one day, they both decided to take a walk down the river, and their paths crossed.”

Kent closes his eyes wistfully; he can still remember the way that Jack had smiled at him and the way Jack’s eyes lit up in the sunlight. Kent had been smitten from the very first second.

“Then what?” Jack prompts, startling Kent out of his thoughts.

“Well, they didn’t plan it, but they both started taking walks by the river every day, and they kept running into each other,” Kent continues. “They would have long conversations about their lives and their responsibilities, and they just… they fell in love, easy as breathing. They spent long afternoons on the riverbank, talking and kissing, and it was like they were the only two people in the world.” 

Kent takes a deep breath, steeling himself for the rest of this story. He doesn’t think about this often—it makes him too _sad_ to think about that very first life, but it’s also just fucking infuriating, because he doesn’t even know exactly what happened. After all this time, the details have remained unclear, and he’s lost sleep over it many a night.

“The seasons changed… the winds grew cold, the river froze over, and there were rumors of war on the horizon,” Kent whispers, voice gone cold as he remembers. “One night, Jack and Kent fell asleep by the river, only Jack’s cloak to keep them warm, and… they didn’t know it, but while they slept, someone laid a curse upon them.”

“A curse?” Jack repeats curiously.

“Yes,” Kent answers quietly. “That night, Jack was murdered in his sleep, and Kent never even figured out who did it. He woke up to his lover _dead_ , and he didn’t know it yet, but they were cursed. From that day forth, they were doomed to repeat the same cycle.”

“What happens?” Jack asks, voice hushed, transfixed by his own tragedy.

“They live again.” Kent swallows thickly, eyes squeezed shut, and takes a deep breath before carrying on. “Every few decades, they get another chance. They fall in love every time, but… Jack dies young. Every time.”

The room is deathly quiet for a second; Kent can’t even hear the music and the people from downstairs anymore. But then Jack laughs softly, breaking the tension and the silence.

“That’s not a romantic story, Kenny,” Jack says, voice light, his anxiety from just half an hour ago now gone without a trace. The pills have _definitely_ kicked in. “You’re bad at this, no wonder you have a C in English.”

“Fuck off, Zimms,” Kent says and laughs now too, letting the memories slip away. He’s long since learned that it doesn’t do to dwell on the past, so he stops thinking about the very first time that Jack bled out in his arms. Instead, he turns to Jack, one hand on his lover’s face, and draws him into a kiss.

Jack kisses back, relaxed and happy and _alive._

The night before the 2009 NHL entry draft, Kent can’t fucking sleep. In the morning, everything is going to change. Kent’s dreams are coming true.

Kent is excited, of course he’s excited. But there’s also a huge part of himself that’s… really fucking dreading all the change that’s coming. He doesn’t want to leave Jack’s side, is what it all boils down to. In all their past lives, only _once_ have they ever gotten more than three years together, and at this point, they’ve already had two years. Kent doesn’t want to spend what little time they have left apart, but—what can he do? They would both be miserable without hockey; it’s too late to find another path.

Kent prays to a god that he doesn’t believe in that they will get more years this time. They’re still just _teenagers_ , don’t they deserve a few more years? Yet, the universe has never cared for what they _deserve_ , and Kent doubts that it’s going to start now.

The clock on the bedside table in Kent’s hotel room reads 3:12 a.m. _Fuck_.

If Kent wants to _not_ be a zombie tomorrow, he really needs to get some fucking sleep. But with his thoughts racing like this, there’s no way he’s going to be able to fall asleep alone in this room. The only attractive alternative is sleeping in _Jack’s_ bed, because maybe some cuddles will banish the dark thoughts from Kent’s mind. He gets up out of bed, slipping into flip flops and grabbing his phone and keycard, as well as Jack’s extra keycard that he slipped Kent earlier. He’d already been in Jack’s room, just a few hours ago, trying his best to rid Jack of his nerves by sucking his dick, and, honestly, he should’ve just stayed there all night. 

A few moments later, Kent quietly lets himself into Jack’s hotel room. 

The room is dark and the bed is empty, but the bathroom door is cracked, letting a little bit of light out.

“Jack?” Kent calls out, sitting down on the edge of his bed and kicking off his flip flops. “It’s just me again, I hope I didn’t freak you out by coming in.”

Jack doesn’t say anything, which is a little weird. Kent feels bad intruding, but he gets up again, too curious to resist, and pushes the bathroom door open all the way.

“Jack!” Kent falls to his knees next to Jack so quickly, he’s definitely going to bruise, but that’s the least of his fucking concerns right now. Jack is passed out on the tile, his orange prescription bottle on the floor next to him and little blue pills scattered on the floor. Frantic, Kent checks for breath—Jack is still breathing, shallow but _there_ ; Kent wasn’t too late this time.

Kent fumbles for his cellphone, calling 911 in a shaky voice, and he doesn’t let himself cry until they’ve hung up and help is on the way.

“It’s too soon,” Kent whispers, holding Jack’s limp hand in his own. This is the worst kind of déjà vu, and he feels sick to his stomach knowing that he’s said these exact words before. A terrible thought occurs to him—oh God, oh _fuck_ , this is why they met so early in this life. They met younger than they have in most lives because Jack is going to _die_ younger than he ever has, what kind of cruel joke is that?

Kent lets out a harsh sob, practically bent in half over Jack, pressing his forehead to Jack’s chest to feel each weak breath. Jack’s heartbeat seems slower by the second.  

“I can’t do this anymore,” Kent chokes out in a broken voice as he soaks Jack’s tshirt with his tears. “I can’t lose you again, Jack, I can’t _take it_.”

All Kent can do is cry and wait. It feels like hours before the paramedics finally arrive, and he watches them with Jack, heart in his throat. This is the first time that Jack has ever had medical treatment at the end, and _maybe_ they can save him, but—Kent tries to hope for the best, but hoping has never panned out. _Fuck_ , he can’t survive this. He’s 18 years old but _hundreds_ of years old, and he is so fucking tired of losing the love of his life.

Kent rides in the back of the ambulance with Jack, watching with teary eyes as the paramedics work. Once they get to the hospital, they rush Jack away, and Kent just… waits.

 

 

At some point, Bob and Alicia show up, and they send Kent strained smiles before disappearing to speak to a doctor. Kent’s mind is still racing—is Jack already dead and the doctor just didn’t tell him? They won’t give Kent _any_ information, since he’s not family. Is Jack still clinging to life somehow? Has the curse separated them from each other once more? Will it be 20 years before they see each other next? _Longer?_ This last one was a long fucking gap, _fuck_ , Kent doesn’t know if his soul can last another wait that long without Jack.

Kent forces himself to take deep breaths, pushing back the panic, because if he starts panicking, he might not be able to stop himself from screaming in anguish.

Eventually, Bob and Alicia come back into the waiting room, and they sit in the chairs right across from Kent.

“Is he—?” Kent can’t even make himself finish the question. Alicia reaches out, taking his hand. Her eyes are wet with tears, as are Bob’s, and Kent fears the worst.

“He’s gonna be okay,” Bob says, and Kent turns to him so fast, he practically gets whiplash.

“He is?” Hope bursts in his chest, sudden and bright.

“His heart stopped,” Bob responds, voice thick with tears, staring down at the floor with unfocused eyes. He looks like he’s trying so _hard_ to keep himself composed; Kent has no idea how he’s managing to hold himself together. Kent feels like he’s splitting at the seams. “But they revived him, and he’s gonna be okay. He should wake up soon.”

Kent swears quietly, squeezing Alicia’s hand hard, heart fucking racing. Jack _died_ , his heart fucking stopped, the curse reared its ugly head again, but—but it can’t be _possible_. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Kent is aware that he’s spiraling into a panic attack, tears streaming down his face and gasping for breath, but Jack is _alive_ , and it shouldn’t be fucking possible, they’re defying fate or God or magic, whatever the fuck it is—they _beat it_. Kent called 911 on time, he _saved Jack_ for the first fucking time. Relief isn’t a big enough word to describe what he’s feeling right now.

Alicia rubs his back until the panic passes and Kent finally sits up straight, wiping the tears off his blotchy, red face. Alicia has always been so kind to him, and there’s sympathy written all over her face as she pulls Kent into a tight hug. He clings to her for a moment, wishing that his own mom was here, but her embrace makes him feel a little better anyway. He pulls back, a watery smile on his face.

“I’m so glad he’s okay,” Kent whispers, and that feels so _small_ compared to how big of a fucking deal this is. Maybe fate will still carry out her cruel plan someday, Jack isn’t out of the woods yet, but—for now, he’s alright. This feels like a dream. “I—I want to see him.”

“Visiting hours are over,” Alicia says softly. There are bags under her eyes; Kent is sure he looks just as wrung out. “You can see him when he wakes up, okay?”

Kent nods, pulling his feet up onto the chair and hugging his knees. He can keep waiting; he’s spent a dozen lifetimes waiting for Jack. He’d wait for Jack forever.

“Kent,” Bob says after a moment, and Kent looks up with tired eyes. Bob is frowning at him. “Son, the draft is in the morning. You should probably go back to the hotel and get some sleep.”

“The draft?” Kent echoes, confused. “I don’t give a fuck about the draft.” 

“You need to be there,” Bob replies, not unkindly. He looks so much like Jack, Kent can hardly stand to look at him right now without thinking, _This is how Jack will look if he ever gets to grow old_.

Fuck, Kent hopes that Jack gets to grow old.

“Kent?” Alicia prompts, startling him from his thoughts. 

“Jack is more important than hockey,” Kent says simply, giving a little shrug. Jack is more important than _anything_. “I’m not leaving him.”

Bob and Alicia let the subject drop after a few more minutes, when it’s clear that Kent will not be swayed. He knows he should probably call his mom, but she would just try to convince him to go to the draft too, so he doesn’t. The three of them sit in that waiting room all night, and none of them sleep a wink.

 

  

When morning comes, Kent does finally call his mom while Bob and Alicia go see Jack. As predicted, she’s worried about him, worried about Jack, and _really_ worried that Kent is giving up his entire future by skipping the draft. She’s appeased by him promising to go to the draft _next_ year, and then he hurries her off the phone when the Zimmermanns come back.

“He’s awake,” Alicia announces with a bright smile, Bob a half-step behind her, looking just as relieved. “He wants to see you.”

“We’re gonna go get breakfast,” Bob adds with a tired smile. “You can go see him.”

“Thank you,” Kent says immediately, breathless. He _needs_ to see Jack, to really prove to himself that Jack is still alive. It won’t feel real until he sees him.

A nurse shows Kent to Jack’s room, and he walks in, closing the door behind him. Jack is laying in bed in a hospital gown, looking worse for the wear but _alive_ , and he turns to look at Kent the second he walks in. Jack’s blue eyes are tired and red-rimmed, but he still smiles at Kent.

“I can’t believe it,” Kent whispers, rushing to the bed and reaching out with shaky hands to cup Jack’s face. Jack leans into the touch, eyes fluttering shut. “Fuck, baby, I’m so glad you’re okay.” 

“I—I didn’t mean to overdose,” Jack whispers, voice hoarse. After a moment, Kent pulls back a little, holding Jack’s hand. His heart has broken so many fucking times, he’s not used to it feeling so _full_. “I need you to know that.”

Kent doesn’t even really know what to say—he just can’t look away from Jack’s face, so relieved by every breath that Jack takes.

“Kenny,” Jack says after a moment, a frown marring his beautiful face. “I think I might be crazy.”

“You’re not crazy,” Kent refutes immediately, but Jack shakes his head. “What is it, baby?”

“You know that story you told me?” Jack asks. “The one about—about you and me, in another life?”

Kent nods, unsure where this is going.

“I dreamt it,” Jack whispers, a faraway look in his eye. “It felt so _real_ , and I—I dreamt of other things too.”

“What other things?” Kent asks slowly, heart beating fast once again as he leans in closer, spellbound. Does Jack _remember_? Jack’s never remembered _any_ of it before.

“I—remember dying in your arms over and over,” Jack responds, sounding so _confused_. “I remember the ocean and I remember white roses and—and I remember you and me, together. Am I losing my mind?”

Kent doesn’t know what to say—he leans in and kisses Jack softly, hardly able to process that Jack is _alive_ and Jack _remembers_.

“It’s all true,” Kent whispers against Jack’s lips. He presses their foreheads together and he feels like he might cry again. “The pirate ship and the garden and the war and _everything_ , Jack, it’s all true.”

“That’s not possible,” Jack whispers. Kent pulls back a little, blue eyes meeting blue eyes. Jack shakes his head, looking dazed. “It was a _dream_ , from all the pills.”

“I know it sounds crazy,” Kent says, and he can’t help but smile. He kisses Jack again, lingering longer this time, and Jack kisses back softly. _Fuck_ , Kent never wants to let Jack go again. “But it feels real because it _is_ real.”

There are tears shining in Jack’s eyes as he asks, “I just—I need you to prove it, so I know for sure.”

“Okay,” Kent agrees easily, smoothing Jack’s hair back gently. “When we first met, the _very first_ time, we both thought lightning had struck us when our hands touched. When we lived in London, your wife was named Anne, she loved to wear expensive yellow gowns, she was so sweet. And—and we grew up together, once, in New York City, and we lived together in this tiny apartment above a butcher’s shop.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jack breathes out, tears sliding down his cheeks as he processes the fact that everything really _did_ happen, all those lives together, all those _deaths_. “How is this possible? How am I not dead right now?”

“Maybe the curse is done,” Kent answers, shrugging. “It doesn’t matter, _fuck_ the curse, you’re alive because I wouldn’t fucking let you go again.”

“Why are we cursed?” Jack asks, brow furrowed. “ _How_ are we cursed? Is this—like, magic?”

“To be honest, I don’t fucking know,” Kent admits sheepishly, and Jack grins.

Jack wraps his arms around Kent, holding him close, and Kent holds tight. The panic and fear of the night before already feels like a lifetime ago; Kent is ready to keep _living_ with Jack, ready to share several more decades together. Maybe they can move in together like before, maybe they can get married if it’s ever made legal, maybe they can grow old, side by side, in matching rocking chairs on a front porch somewhere. Maybe they can be happy.

“I love you,” Jack says, for the first time in this life, but the thousandth time, and it’s never sounded sweeter.

Kent kisses him again and says, “I love you more.”

“I have about a million questions,” Jack says after a moment, and Kent laughs.

“I have a million answers.”

**Author's Note:**

> Blithelybonny, I really hope you liked this! ❤️
> 
>  
> 
> If y'all could humor me a little, tell me which time period was your favorite! And/or which death was the most painful! I'm very curious!


End file.
